


for the walls of my tower, they come crumbling down

by mimosaeyes



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Developing Friendships, Family Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 09:56:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16015535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimosaeyes/pseuds/mimosaeyes
Summary: Callum, Rayla, and the nuances of trust.A humble ‘missing scene’ set in the cave in 1x07.





	for the walls of my tower, they come crumbling down

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Babel by Mumford & Sons.
> 
>  _The Dragon Prince_ cleared my skin, watered my crops, and tentatively broke my writing dry spell. I’m so excited for more.

Ezran falls asleep soon enough, warmed by the fire and sated by moonberries. Thanks to the bogeyberries stuck in his nose, he has to breathe through his mouth, and after watching him for a moment, Callum sets his sketchbook aside. 

Rayla looks up from where she has been watching the egg worriedly.

“Can I borrow your flask thing?” Callum asks, crossing to her side of the fire. Nodding, she hands over the glass vial that held moonberry juice until recently — until Bait. 

Callum uses it to collect some freshly fallen snow from just outside the cave, then returns, shivering slightly, to melt it over the fire. The flames crackle comfortingly over the howling of the wind.

Once it’s done, Callum holds out the vial to Rayla, who accepts it with her good hand and takes two quick sips of water. Then she holds it between her knees, gesturing for him to pass her the cork, and stoppers it using her good hand.

“For Ez?” she says, to confirm.

Callum nods absently, brow creasing as he stares at her purpling left hand. “In case he wakes up later with a dry mouth.”

Then: “Don’t you know some ancient Xadian berry that’ll help with the pain?”

She shrugs, setting aside the flask and stretching. “It’d just come back worse.”

They’ve both been keeping their voices low to avoid waking up Ezran, but Callum would also never have brought up her wrist ribbon in front of his brother. An assassin’s binding, she called it earlier, when she explained that it would slowly take her hand. That she would let it. 

The alternative, though, is beyond unthinkable, so Callum only shrugs too, and deadpans, “Moonshadow elf rituals seem… intense.”

That gets him a quiet laugh. “Now there’s an understatement.”

After he settles back onto his rocky ledge and picks up his sketchbook again, an easy silence develops between them. They’ve been travelling together for such a short time — a mere matter of days — yet this companionable feeling is already becoming familiar. 

Distantly, he’s aware of Rayla inspecting her swords, ensuring they are in tip top shape. Her body language changes when she conducts these nightly checks. It must be a routine she was drilled in, he thinks.

Callum continues shading in his two sketches of his mother, feeling the tension and fear of the day slowly dissipate from his muscles. Drawing has always helped him to process things.

Occasionally he feels Rayla’s gaze land heavy on him, and she seems always about to say something, but never does.

He decides to let her be.

When Ezran does wake up, coughing drily, Callum is about to get up and bring him the water when he sees Rayla stir from a light doze and immediately pick up the flask. He watches as his brother, still sleepy, unquestioningly accepts the drink, and he hates how the thought flits through his mind, that maybe Ezran shouldn’t be quite so trusting when he wakes up to see his would-be killer crouching just by him.

Ezran takes a comically big gulp of water, which gets him a fond look from Rayla.

“Easy now, Ez,” she chides gently. 

Callum drops his gaze back to his drawings and sighs, so quietly it’s almost soundless.

He misses her, still. Their mother. But maybe he was right. Maybe she’s watching over them, even out here in the middle of nowhere, in this snowstorm. 

She always made Harrow stronger. Not the kind of strong that goes to war, as Viren always seemed to urge. The kind of strong that knows when to extend an olive branch. 

Slowly, Callum begins flipping back the pages. There are the six Primal Sources that Rayla drew the other day, and his own sketch of the storm whirling inside the Primal Stone. Before that, his drawing of a dragon — a bit like Thunder, perhaps — breathing fire onto a marshmallow monster. Maybe for a toasty snack.

What a silly doodle. And when he drew it, Ezran was still soundly asleep in his adjoining room, huddled under the covers with Bait and with no idea that there were deadly assassins hiding in the woods, waiting for the chance to kill him and his father.

(Dad. Just once, he’s called him Dad.)

A lot has happened since three drawings ago.

He’s so absorbed in his thoughts that he jumps a little when Rayla touches his shoulder. But she only murmurs, “Get some rest, Callum,” and leaves the vial, containing what remains of the water, propped up against his thigh.

“Hey,” he says to stop her, and unravels his scarf from around his neck. “Wrap up.” 

When Callum holds it out to her, the fabric still warm in his hand, Rayla gets nearly the same look in her eyes as she had out on the frozen lake. 

“No, that’s okay,” she hedges, pushing away the scarf. A cheeky smile lifts her lips. “Save it for coddlin’ your weird human body. Five fingers, honestly!” 

Then Rayla backs away — again like she did out on the cracking ice.

Callum tilts his head at her. He may not know exactly what it is she still isn’t telling them, but he does know they’re in this thing together.

And right then, he knows what his mother would do.

“Know what?” he says, starting to grin. “I’m just gonna throw it.”

She squints her eyes at him. “Not this again.”

“I’ll just gently…” he bundles the scarf up into a loose ball, “gently toss it.”

“Oh, for—” Rayla starts to say, but then Callum whispers exaggeratedly loudly, “Tossing it!” and suddenly she’s being assaulted by a ball of soft knitwear.

Callum begins summarily stowing his charcoal pencil, along with his sketchbook, as if to say _my work here is done_.

Then he catches the look on her face. There is hesitation in her tiny smile, as she stands there holding the scarf. But also a surprising amount of something darker, hidden. Like a bruise that you know is there, and that you take special care to avoid bumping again.

Rayla swallows, blinking rapidly, and says in a small voice, “Thanks.”

When they turn in for the night, Rayla lies with her injured hand cradled in the tail end of the scarf, and the rest of the fabric bundled up as a pillow under her head. 

Despite how tired he is, Callum stays awake for a long time, listening to his thoughts, watching the firelight flicker on the craggy wall.

**Author's Note:**

> Up to you how much Callum suspects the truth (but doesn’t want to accept it).
> 
> Tonally, this one’s a compromise between canon and my own style. Hopefully it works, since they’re having some downtime.
> 
> To support a flighty oneshot writer, consider reblogging my [tumblr link post](http://mimosaeyes.tumblr.com/post/178167104692/for-the-walls-of-my-tower-they-come-crumbling)!


End file.
